


Reparation

by MilkshakeKate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Birthday Sex, Blow Jobs, F/M, Gold Star Award for Illya Kuryakin: a trooper and a saint, Hurt/Comfort, Porn with Feelings, Uniforms, much deserved and much neglected head for the man i have wronged, sorry illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkshakeKate/pseuds/MilkshakeKate
Summary: Illya Kuryakin's birthday gift arrives just before midnight with a lock pick, a grappling hook, and a plan.





	

 

Something is off.    

Illya senses this as soon as the door is in his line of sight.    

The floor is stocked with fellow uniformed KGB agents attending the convention, with his room at the far end, overlooking the square. There is no possibility of intrusion. Not without triggering the attention of those stationed between the escalator and his door, on guard. No threat that could sneak past the lobby security without the challenge of papers, identification.     

Still, with every tired step over the damask carpet, it itches at him.    

It is an expensive hotel, carved and luxurious in a way that sparks guilt in his principles. For all his time at U.N.C.L.E., the contradictions of the regime are now inescapable. For a year he had chided Waverly for a budget splashed lavishly on accommodation, and prided himself on his disapproval throughout.     

But tonight he has dined on beluga caviar and fine vodka, sour jellies and dark meats which, if he were of a lower rank, he would never have seen in the flesh, even on New Year’s Eve. Perhaps the churning in his stomach is only that; an abundance of riches after weeks of the simple, stodgy soups and dumplings of Lubyanka's staff canteen. A sickliness, stuffed up with rich creams and glittering pickled delicacies to fill the cracks in all that has been presented to him.    

Every exclusive meeting has had him posing alternatives inside his own head; suggesting less destructive strategies, aid from outside sources. Methods of U.N.C.L.E. He daren’t voice them aloud. He is already a liability, a defector at any moment.   

Illya fidgets with the room key in his clenched fist. The episodes have worsened, here. There have been times where he has had to excuse himself from the boardroom to pace down the halls, to breathe in the city square and stuff his shaking hands in his pockets to bind them tight.   

The one tincture to calm him is three hours behind and two seas away, and, judging by their last phone call on the night of his departure, she is as enraged by this exercise as he is.     

And he is so, so tired.   

If he is on his best behaviour, they will trust him. They will let him go. It is better to keep his head down, to keep his nose clean. To get this over with as soon as possible. To, after three long months, finally go home.  

   

His case is still locked. The draught curtains to the balcony are closed, the narrow windows shuttered. 

He had been right, though. In all his uselessness here, in all his dulling senses for coming back, he is right.  Something _is_ off, because there is somebody in his room.

There comes another clatter from the bathroom. The door is closed, the light on.  

Running water, shutting off.

Illya flattens to the wall. He flits his fingers over his Makarov and wishes that today, of all days, could have ended with the same numbness he woke up to. 

“It’s only me,” comes the voice in the dark.   

The air rushes out of his chest.    

The door opens, and the bathroom light cuts. The emergence is too casual; a low lean against the door frame, a lingering stare back at him.

“You should not be here,” Illya manages.   

“Oh.” If the light were on, he’d see her sarcastic little nod. “I’ll get going then, shall I?”    

Illya forces himself to hold his hands by his sides. The weight of his pistol throbs like a wound. His nerves are a worn rope, tight, frayed. He could have shot through the plaster, the tile, landed a bullet in her. He swallows shakily.

If he had?

“No,” Illya hunts blindly for the side lamp, flicks it on. “No. How did you—?”    

Gaby tuts, illuminated by the warm glow like a ghost. “Still underestimating me?” She gives him the dimpled smile that turns him weak.    

And she’s in her favourite lingerie.

She crosses the room, and he can’t keep his eyes off the careless sway of her hips and the stretch of her arms, coming up — not to wrap around his neck as he craves, but to sweep up to his uniform’s collar. Her face is placid, but he can hear her thoughts. It’s a costume. This costume is monstrous to her.    

Nonetheless, she takes interest in the embroidered hammer and sickle, pinches it so it flashes gold in the light.     

“Gaby—”    

She bolts the door behind him, takes off his cap to set it on the sideboard. “Happy birthday, Illya.”    

He swallows. “Thank you.”    

Taking his numb hands from his sides she presses them into her hips, tracing the satin. “Do you like them?”    

“Yes. Gaby, you should not—”    

“Do you remember them?”    

Illya sighs, nods.    

“From the first time.”    

“Yes.”    

“You liked them so much. The look on your face that night, Illya... I’ve missed it.”    

Illya nods again. He scans the room for signs of a break-in, for bugs left in plain sight, for the glint of a scope trained on Gaby’s back. In the mirror across the room, he sees only his hands encircling her hips in the half dark. Her clothes - a silk shell top, a pair of navy capris he recognises - are in a familiarly messy pile on the armchair by the window. Still, his heart thumps erratic, a radio signal channelling through him and crossing his wires, severing his connection to anything else.  

Gaby stares for a long time. He feels the flicker of her dark eyes all over him. She sees every fault in him here. He is back in Russia, where he belongs, and still he can’t control the tremors wracking through his hands. She must feel them quaking on her slim hips now.

How cowardly he must look.    

Even in her lingerie, she addresses him as she would her partner in the field. “I can go, Illya. I can make the call.”    

“Don’t.”    

She nods, firmer than he could muster himself. The authority in her voice melts deliberately away. “Well? How was your day?”    

Illya flexes his palms. He had dreamt of her like this not two nights ago. When he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even close his eyes, he had willed her into existence in his empty arms, just as she had been the last time he slept soundly. Her bare skin warm under his hands, her breathing soft and her cheek on his chest.   

If Illya wasn’t touching her now, he’d think she was a trick.    

The elevator bell shrills like an alarm.    

And the bubble bursts. His renewed senses clog up with smog. Before anything else he’s feeling around for his Makarov, for the door handle behind him, knuckles grazing metal and wood. His eyes glaze twice over, his focus shrinking to a pinprick.    

“Illya?” Gaby takes to his face. Her hands are small and calm, cool on his burning skin.     

Like his pulse: hide her, hide her, hide her.    

She stares, and he is dreaming still, surely, but it is a different sort of dream. Lucid and fighting him hard. All his limbs are useless, like he’s suspended in black treacle. Around Gaby his vision often blurs at the edges. Now she is fading out of his grasp.    

He circles her wrists to keep her there.     

A door shuts down the hall, and the floor falls quiet again. 

“ _Gott_ ,” she murmurs carefully, eyes roving all over him. She firms her hand on his jaw, tilts him down to look at her. “It’s me. I'm here. It’s alright.”

Illya closes his eyes and nods. When he’s able, he slips her cool palm over his mouth to kiss her there.    

Her voice lowers. "Were you followed?"    

"No," he manages, but she wants more from him. "They are drinking. Playing cards in the bar."    

"You came up to bed instead."    

"Yes."    

Gaby smirks. Whatever has struck this playfulness into her, it steadies him a little. His woman is one to sneak into palatial hotels crawling with her enemies. She undresses there so easily, and touches him tenderly, softly appreciative. Her certainty bleeds into him, slow and sure. It doesn’t halt his fear for her being here. But there comes a blissful calm, knowing he is back in such capable hands.    

Illya draws her into his chest before she can say another word. He holds her there by the nape of her neck and sighs into her hair. He kisses her parting, her crown, the tousled wave tucked behind her ear. She still uses the same shampoo. He could fall asleep on her this way, purely exhausted, like he’s home in his own bed after many months at sea.  

“Illya.” Gaby pulls back to look up at him. She holds that surgeon's eye, hunting for a hidden complication. She plucks at a button on his uniform, twists it tight. “I want to do something for you.”    

What more could she do than this? He is a pauper crowned king tonight.   

“Really, I have been thinking about it for quite a while.”    

“What do you need?”    

Gaby smiles, pacifying. “Nothing from you.”    

“Then what...?”    

She guides his hands down her back, settling them low on the curve. “Do you want to?”    

Illya, knowing this question well, nods.     

“I’ve missed you,” she says quietly, as if to herself. She slips that single button undone and peers up at him under her lashes. “You can take this off.”   

Illya squeezes her hands on his chest and makes a start, keeping his eyes on her and working his way down the olive green jacket. She makes short work of the belt around his middle, lays it on the sideboard with his cap.    

Taking a hanger from the door, he settles the heavy garment on the arms and hangs it back up. He would rather toss it out of the window now, be rid of it. But despite what this uniform means to Gaby, she doesn’t mind his diligence. She understands. It is a costume, after all. He ought to maintain it, just as he maintains his featureless composure downstairs, tightening the strings of his mask. He should shake hands with pressed cuffs and accept claps on his sturdy, regulation shoulder boards as if nothing is amiss.    

“I have missed you too,” says Illya. It comes out barely whole; his throat is tight with how long it has been cooped up inside him. No phone calls, no letters. Seeing her now is like seeing her for the first time, struck dumb and shaken up all over again.

Memories had brought solace, for a time. Dreams, then fantasy. But they lay flat, lifeless. And where all of Moscow has taken on a dreary sluggishness, Gaby has never been static. A catalyst he had never known he'd needed. As if he has been beaten and bruised, to finally be laid out in the banya for scalding steam, the lash of reeds, the wrap of soothing cotton. Only the low, soft break of her voice had shaken the hotel by its foundations, popped all the tiles off the bathroom walls. She is within reach now. She moves and she breathes, her arms and her chest darker with a tropical mission they haven't shared, and warming with every beat of her heart — quickening now, he hopes, just like his own. 

Gaby slips off his tie clip and twirls it between her fingers. She has never seen this uniform on him before. On others, she has. In East Berlin. He will always feel partly responsible for it. Shedding it is like surrendering, like coming clean — dropping a shield to let her have at his vulnerable skin underneath, if she wants to. 

She only sets the clip on the sideboard with the rest. A little pile, neat and easy to find. It is unlike her, but very much like him. She is calming him in the ways she knows how.   

Taking to his tie, she rolls the fabric between thumb and forefinger and says, “Any presents?”   

He shakes his head as she slips the knot.   

Gaby, lingering at his throat while she thinks on this a moment, unbuttons his khaki shirt. She takes to his cuffs to undo them too. All Illya can do is hold up his wrists, one by one, and shrug the shirt off his shoulders when she has finished.    

“I’m sure she will call,” Gaby offers.   

Reluctant to think of his mother, and unwilling to contest it, Illya nods. He lets Gaby guide him back to the bed, lowering him to perch on the edge.

Here he is level with her chest, and he looks over the curves of her slight breasts and shoulders with something that feels like homesickness. If he is supposed to keep his hands to himself, he isn’t rebuked for breaking the rules. He sweeps his thumb along the underside of her brassiere, the tiny frill of lace scalloping the bridge between satin and skin. Everything is minute, now she is here. Every detail defined, shadows darker and texture deeper. Touch is sensitive. He’s sure that taste will be amplified, too.   

He has been sleepwalking for months.  

Gaby covers his hands and presses them to her chest. The shake eases, and his palms begin to settle, whole and steady.    

She seems pleased, lays a kiss into his palm too, before taking it with her to tug at his waistband. Her knuckles graze over the trail of dark blond hair under his navel, coarse and warm. She catches his eye with a little look that sets something thumping under his ribs.    

“How did you get here?” he asks, an afterthought, as he unbuttons his trousers. She watches his hands and his face in shifts, measuring him.   

“Don’t worry about that.”   

“I worry about you.”   

Gaby steps between his spread knees. He pulls her in, lands a light kiss between her breasts where she smells of honey and day-long July warmth. And she holds him there, fingertips tracing the swirl of hair at his crown.    

Illya closes his eyes and sighs, sleepy and full.    

“Did you have your birthday breakfast?”   

He huffs into her chest. “No.”   

“When you come back, we will do it properly. Your birthday.” She sweeps a finger over the breadth of his bare shoulders. “Not long, now.”   

“No.”    

She lets him go, gives him one last look over before sinking to her knees, sitting back on her heels, and starting on his black boots. Illya holds his questions and helps her slip them off his heels, and together they pull his trousers down his thighs and off his feet. Following suit, she folds them up and sets them on the ottoman at the end of the bed.   

“There you are,” Gaby murmurs privately, crawling back over to him. And she presses a kiss to his naked thigh.   

It’s chaste and it’s brief, like a peck on the cheek. It has him frowning. It’s something he does for her, when he lays her down and parts her legs, kisses her there soft and slow. Because he wants to. Does she only want to? Everything Gaby does is considered and rooted in conviction, determination. That she presses a second kiss to his other thigh settles it: she has a plan. He hasn’t asked what, but when she hooks her fingers into his underwear, he doesn’t press for an answer.   

They slip down his tired legs too, inch by anticipatory inch, and she drops them by the boots.   

Gaby sits back on her heels again. Her palms spread over the tops of his knees, each hand barely spanning half the width of his thighs. She peers up from his half-hard cock, and she wets her lips idly.  

Illya’s stomach drops.   

“Gaby—”   

“Kiss me first.”   

He nods quickly and takes her cheeks in both hands, draws her in close. Like that, a gate opens, and feeling surges through his chest like hot water. Not without a fraction of fear. It is a heady sensation, dizzying and rare, how like a magnet Gaby is. Like he’s full of shrapnel he’s pulled into her, drawn out and pleading to be freed of all the little shards. How she digs in deep to find them, plucks them out without flinching.   

She leans back only to spread her lips over his in a new way, softer. He has ached for weeks, has dragged his thumb over his lips through every meeting, daydreaming of hers on his again.    

Gaby is sweet, at first. And then comes the bite, taking his lower lip between her teeth and nipping him. Her hands tighten on his thighs for it, leaning up, and Illya sighs into her, presses back hard and sharp.   

When she parts from him he grumbles, searching for her.    

Then she wraps one finger at a time around his cock, and she pumps gently. Illya’s eyes slam shut and he lets another breath fall out, ragged.   

“I want to use my mouth,” she says.     

Illya huffs hard through his nose, threads his fingers through her hair to rest his head on hers.    

“Is that alright?”   

“ _Da._ ” He nods, nods, nods. “Yes. This is…?”   

“It’s what I want to do,” she confirms. She slips her thumb through the wetness gathering at the tip, and Illya thinks he’ll die if he even _thinks_ about her mouth. He swallows the rest of his groan and massages the back of her head with tight fingers.   

He feels Gaby’s laugh before he hears it, her breath shivering down his chest. Illya takes to her waist and traces down, searching for the heat between her legs.   

“No,” Gaby says, and he quickly withdraws his hand. “Not yet.”   

“But—”   

“Illya.” She scoots closer on her knees, pushes a palm to his chest.   

He meets her halfway, leaning back on his elbows. _Not_ sulking.    

Gaby readies herself. She wears an expression reserved for contemplating dossiers, road maps. She takes to squeezing a little at the base while drawing her fingertips over his balls, tentative, as she thinks over her strategy.   

With nowhere to put his hands, Illya rests one low on his stomach and makes a fist in the sheets with the other.    

“Tell me,” she says. “Before.”   

Looking down, Gaby has swept her dark hair over one shoulder and is up on her knees, leaning over his lap. Her hair falls over his thigh and it tickles, cool and soft, where her hand is hot and tight, still working him as the other trails elsewhere.    

Gaby’s breath draws over his stomach, and she lays a scattering of kisses wherever she likes. The V of his hips, sensitive beyond measure. The join of his thigh, stretched wide for her to sit between. She palms over his abdomen, teasing the muscles jumping under her attention.

Illya isn’t certain he can lean up for much longer, needing to sink back into the bed and get lost in her touch. But he can’t stop _looking_.   

Fortunately, he holds out for just long enough.

Gaby tucks her hair behind her ear and, settling her working hand at the base of his cock, she licks experimentally over the head.    

“Ah—!”   

She does the same again, a little firmer, and Illya chokes out a curse.   

“Illya?”   

He assures her by nodding at nothing, and for far too long. 

A hum and a smile, and she swirls around the head again, giving a gentle suck. She stays there, rolling her tongue over him, dipping into his slit gently and, once she has pulled a hard enough groan from him, she releases him with a pop.    

Illya can’t find the words in Russian, never mind English, German. He catches Gaby’s proud little smile though. A muscle in his groin clenches viciously when she holds his gaze and spreads her lips over him again, wet and hot as she lowers down, and down, to kiss her fist wrapped around the base. She does it again, and again. Illya drops his head back between his braced shoulders and groans.   

Shifting on her knees she picks up the pace, making small keening sounds of her own which shudder straight through Illya’s cock and deep into the heated cradle of his hips.    

“Gaby,” he warns, tight.    

She sucks, her tongue flush along the ridge on the underside. Tracing him with her fingers, a plush kiss to the tip and a lick where it meets his length has him aching, mindless. She worries her tongue there a while, gauging him beneath her lashes, and Illya hisses through clenched teeth, gripping the sheets.   

He'll never think of anything else in his idle moments again.    

“Illya?” Her voice is sweet and dry, mouthing over him. “Tell me.”   

When he can look, Gaby’s dark eyes are alive. She sucks soft kisses over him, slowing only to catch her breath.    

Illya stares, jaw slack. He sweeps her hair back behind her ear, caresses her hot cheek. Whatever she sees in him then, it gentles her features and has her spread her palm over his stomach, stroking thoughtfully.   

And then her eyes drift closed, brow furrowing as she kisses and licks at him again. And there's that conviction, that certainty he has always loved on her.  

True to form, she dips her nails into his hip and the sting is so uniquely Gaby that Illya grits his teeth and thrusts up into it, his thighs stringing tight and needing to pulse into _something_.    

Gaby sees this as an invitation, and as soon as her mouth seals around him again a gasp tears through his chest. She hums around him, and she takes him down as far as she can. He’s at the back of her throat when she meets the circle of her fingers, and it’s too much, the red hot velvet of her tongue, the endless soft wet.  

"I—" he stutters out, because she had asked him to. "Gaby, I have to—"   

Gaby opens her eyes, looking up his body to find him. She gives the slightest little wink and it's enough to have Illya scoff his surprise, flushed and thrumming. She spreads her palm over his thigh and squeezes, her head tilting to sweep her hair out of her eyes and she goes on, sucking with a new, more confident slide of her tongue.    

Illya squeezes his eyes shut, a current striking into his hips and spreading up his thighs. He's close. It rolls inside him, a deepening, throbbing pressure. Without thinking, Illya slides his fingers into Gaby's hair. When he cups the back of her head she moans around him.   

"Okay?" He breathes, barely conscious, and lightens his touch in case it isn't.    

"Mmph," she manages, eyes closed, and covers his hand with hers to keep it there. She pulls back a little, using her hand to give a light twist with each stroke. Illya braces his feet on the carpet and tenses, refusing to buck up into the heat of her mouth.    

Until Gaby flattens her tongue over the tip. A slow, firm lick, and with the draw of her palm it has him coiling up and his breath catching in his throat, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.   

“Gaby—!”   

She quickens and, with a slight gasp from her open mouth, he comes shatteringly hard, one fist nearly ripping the sheets to shreds and the other shivering over her crown, her neck. His eyes shut so tightly the stars are fizzing, feeling nothing but the rush of climax and the still-warm pulse of Gaby's mouth on him as it comes.   

  

When Illya gathers his wits, he finds Gaby wiping her mouth on the heel of her hand. She blows a strand of hair out of her face, a blush blooming on her cheeks, and she gives him a wicked smile.   

Illya falls back to the mattress with a tortured groan, panting.   

“Mm,” she agrees, and crawls up onto the bed. He’s so lax he can’t fathom how she has the strength to crane over him, to suspend herself there without collapsing. Her hair tickles his cheek, and she stares down at him, her hands braced in the sheets on either side of his head.    

Gaby ducks to kiss him quick. He makes a nonsensical sound, and she parts her lips over his to open him up too.  

“How did I do?”  

Illya finds strength to cup the back of her head, bringing her down to kiss him again. “Thank you.”  

Gaby laughs. “You swore. In Russian.” She strokes his chest, eyes bright. “You said something about heaven."   

“Really," he mumbles, uncertain. He doesn’t recall. He could have given her state secrets, lost as he’d been. Looking at her now, he would do it if she only asked. Illya tucks her hair behind her ear. “You have been studying.”  

“Heathrow to Moscow.” She shrugs, and her hair falls back down. A dark curtain between she and him and the rest of the world. “Long flight.”  

She’s right in front of him. Above him. A wish conjured into being.   

Illya brings her down to lie on him, her whole weight. She goes willingly. Her skin is warm under his hands again; she has worked up a fine film of sweat on her chest, her stomach. He is sticky with his and hers, both.  

“Now,” he decides, palm curving over the back of her thigh, stroking up and in between. “It is your turn to tell me. Before.”   

Gaby plants her knees in the mattress. “I said not yet.”  

A shrug. “Consider it a birthday gift.”  

“Well, aren’t you spoiled?”  

Illya huffs. His hands fall to the sheets.  

She walks her fingers up his chest, flicks him under the chin. “My flight is in the morning.” 

Disappointment drops in him like a brick, but he should have known; every dream must come to an end. Only, for them, it is always too soon. 

But he nods, because it is the professional thing to do. “I have a meeting. At noon.” 

“You will take me to the airport, then.” 

“Yes.” Illya covers her hand resting on his collarbone. “I had hoped you would meet her, this time.” 

She gives him a sad little smile. "I know."

Illya doesn’t want to say _next time_. He doesn’t want Gaby to have to come back here.  

“Then tell me this,” he says instead, determined not to upset her. He smooths down her back to push all ill-feeling away. “How did you get in?”  

“Hm? You can’t guess?”  

“I cannot _think_.”  

Gaby smirks. “I came through the window.”   

He gives her a dull look. “We are on the eighth floor.”  

“ _You_ are. I am on the eleventh.”  

“You didn’t.”  

“Oh, I did.” It has sparked her change of heart. She picks up his hands, curves them over the clasps of her brassiere. “Nice view of the square, this side. The breeze is not too strong. An easy descent.”  

“You—” Illya swallows, distracted by the curve of her body as she leans up, the grind of her hips into his as she comes to straddle him. “Y-you could have been seen!”  

Snip-snip go the clasps. “But I wasn’t.” She shrugs off the bra, covers her breasts with one arm while she hooks Illya’s waiting fingertips into her underwear. She plucks the satin at her hips with a _snap_.   

Illya groans, shifting under her and growing helplessly hard again, far too soon.  “The balcony.”  

“So flimsy, these Russian locks.”  

“Irrelevant. You should _not_ —”  

“Hmm.” She leans down to kiss him quiet, breathing in his sigh. “But aren’t you just _so_ glad I did?”  

   
 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Who else but Gaby Teller would abseil down a building in the dead of night to give Russia's least expectant angel a blowjob on his birthday?? I love her. As for her Not Yet-ing, my intention for this was that she'd get down to her birthday suit (ay) to play around with Illya and _be_ with him, honestly. Lots of kissing and long tight hugs... maaaybe giving in when morning comes around, and a night of nudey-spooning has inspired them both ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) forgive me
> 
> Illya Kuryakin spends the entire build-up to a surprise beej thinking about how much he loves his German girlfriend and how he wishes she could meet his mother. Undisputed fact? I also have a Feeling that Illya mostly neglects his birthdays. My headcanon since day ONE has been that he does have a special birthday breakfast. No idea why I KNOW this so firmly. I know it down to my bones. He has black cherry jam on dark, dark bread, lots of butter, and some v good black tea. If he had a free day, he'd spend it reading or taking a summery walk in the park (he'd go with Gaby, these days, if she wanted). If he were in London/NYC with UNCLE, he'd definitely be overwhelmed by workplace cake. And thrown out of the doors at 5pm, straight into the nearest bar by Solo. AND heading straight over to Gaby's with her thereafter for all of the above and MORE! I'm a strong advocate for Illya having a nice time, hence Illya FINALLY getting some detailed reciprocation omg... he's... an angel and he deserves it.


End file.
